To Lose a Mother Slowly

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To Lose a Mother Slowly

To lose a mother slowly

is like walking around half asleep.

It’s being caught in a thunderstorm but pretending it’s not raining as you stand there, 
frozen, 
clothes dripping.

Time tells the story when you can’t,
pictures become progression markers.
Events are just more things without her,
and you hide your bitterness well.

To lose a mother slowly, over years, 
reminds you that you aren’t in control.
It reminds you of every little loss, 
every call you used to get, 
every time she wouldn’t let you off the phone because she had one more goodbye and
one more “I love you,” 
all the texts left unsent.

To lose a mother slowly means you look too long, 
at the grandmother walking her grandkids across the parking lot after leaving a store, 
too long at all the school events, 
too long in the afternoon pick up lines, 
too long to make it feel okay that you and your kids won’t have any of that.

It means you will watch your mother suffer. And your father go downhill. 

It means you will watch them as they leave, slowly.

It means you will hear “everything happens for a reason” and think “then shit, I don’t
want any of it.” 

You will fight with God and things will be the same. 

To lose a mother slowly is to wonder who you are anyway.

It is to choke on many rivers of tears.

*A slight variation of this piece was originally published in the first edition of Constellate, a literary journal of creative work by students at Old Dominion University.

Parkinson’s Disease

An estimated 25 million people – far more than DOUBLE the number diagnosed today – will have Parkinson’s disease by 2050. The annual cost of the disease is expected to surpass $79 billion within 12 years. We desperately need a cure for my mom and for all those who have received a Parkinson’s disease diagnosis and are navigating Parkinson’s disease progression, which can include dementia stages.